


Seeing Stars

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [17]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 04:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15598497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: Race gets caught up in an alley and things don't go well





	Seeing Stars

“Wanna say that again Higgins?”

Racetrack had never carried a blade on him like some of the older newsies did, and now, with his back very literally against the wall and two guys on either side, he was questioning that decision. 

He didn’t say anything though. If he could knock Carver even a couple inches to the right he had a clear shot through the alley. Angelo was fast but Race figured he could out run him if he got a couple feet of a head start. The muscles in his legs ached from tension.

Carver took a step forward. “Not so tough now that Jack s’not here ain’tcha? Not like ‘e could do much for ya anyway, guy’s yellow-”

“Fuck you.” Race spat the insult out and edged off the wall. Two inches, and he’d be set. “Got kicked outta lodging for beatin’ kids and you wanna talk shit about Jack?”

The ‘kicked out’ part struck a nerve and Carver threw himself at Race just as Jack’s name left his mouth. The gap was there though, and Race lunged for it, feet digging into the pavement and slipping on gravel and he was in front of both of them-

“You little shit.”

A hand grabbed the back of his collar and threw him back, quickly moving to hold his wrists behind his back and then Carver’s fist connected with his jaw. 

No matter how many times it happened, getting punched in the face took Race off guard every time. There was a vicious crack that shot through his head and light exploded behind his eyes, popping and ringing and it didn’t get any time to fade away. Carver just hit him. Again. And again. And again. 

Race lost count and he couldn’t feel blood but he knew he was covered in it and Angelo’s grip was strong and kicking didn’t get anything but a twist in his wrists and it  _ hurt _ . 

When Angelo finally let go he fell to the ground and Race knew they were kicking him but there was a dullness in the pain. His ears were ringing and his eyes were screwed shut and he realized that they could actually kill him.

Because they weren’t stopping. Involuntarily, his lungs seized up and he started coughing hard from the ground as a boot connected with his shoulder this time. 

Air was getting caught up in his throat and, chest heaving, the pain momentarily faded away because he couldn’t get any air. They’d knocked the wind out of him and just kept doing it over and over.

Blurrily he opened his eyes through the fit. Carver looked psychotic. Angelo less so but both of them were like rabid dogs and it looked like Carver was reaching down to pick him up when suddenly he wasn’t. 

No, suddenly he was up against the wall and someone, Race  _ knew  _ who it was even with his back turned, was hitting him over and over. Again and again. Angelo had backed off and Race saw the beat of hesitation before he took off down the alley. Coward. 

But everywhere hurt and he managed to see Carver finally slide down the wall before trying to curl in on himself. There was a searing pain in his side and blindly he tried to turn over when a pair of hands gently came up under his arms and pulled him to stand. 

Everything was bright and one of his eyes was swollen completely shut but Spot was there. Standing in front of him without a scratch except for the blood on his knuckles that wasn’t even his. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ Race.”

From far away he heard himself bark out a laugh before his knees buckled and everything went dark.

* * *

 

“Tell Jack I’m keepin’ ‘im here for a night’re two ‘till he’s good to get around.”

“He ain’t gonna be happy.”

“Do I look happy?”

“‘Kay, well tell ‘im Jack’s real worried and we’ll sell extra for ‘im s’long as he needs.”

“Got it.”

Race heard the voices hazily through the receding edges of sleep. He wanted to go back but his head felt like someone was hammering at it and his ribs weren’t much better. There was no way he could sleep through it. 

A door shut behind him and a couple locks clicked, opening his eyes it barely took a second to figure out he was at Spot’s place. He’d spent nights before and there was the same crack in the ceiling.

Ignoring his protesting muscles, he pushed his elbows down and propped himself up a little. He was about to call for Spot when a hand on his shoulder pushed him back into a lying position.

“Stay down Racer.”

“Hello to you too Spotty.” Race cracked a smile and accepted the bag of ice Spot offered him, pressing it against his eye, hissing in pain. “Hate for ya to see me like this.”

He was half joking but Spot stared back stone-faced. 

“What were ya doing walking alone in that part’a town? You go from Sheepshead to the bridge, and that’s it,” Spot said. His voice grated against Race’s ears and took the grin off his face. “They could’a killed you, came awful close too.”

Pain was still pulsing through his body and Race shrugged the best he could. “I was goin’ to collect money from a couple guys I placed bets with, barely went a block off my normal route when Carver grabbed me.”

Spot didn’t say anything and Race squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. Yeah, he was mad, but he’d also cleaned Race up pretty good. Tape was digging into his ribs and there was no blood on him. He was even in a different shirt, one of Spot’s actually, he’d been selling in it last week. A small part of Race warmed a little.

“Ya got a couple cracked ribs, somehow your nose ain’t broken, and you’re not gonna be able to get around for a few days with all’a the bruises. Ya can stay here ‘till your good to sell.” 

“I’d hate ta take advantage of your hospitality Spot.”

“Too late.”

* * *

 

For a day or so Race was pretty out of it. He’d go out for a couple hours and wake up from the pain in his ribs or head. Usually there was a glass of water on the table next to him and Spot was almost never there. Selling he guessed, but checking back on him now and again. There was a cold rag on his head when he woke up once and a roll next to the glass of water. 

Race had smiled when he saw it, wolfed it down a second after and really wished he had some whiskey to help with the pain. For a few seconds he entertained the thought of looking around the apartment for one but Spot was mad enough as is.

Mad, but in more of a concerned way, not in a ‘slam you against a wall and beat the shit out of you’ sort of way. Spot had levels of anger that went along with basically every other emotion, and Race was getting a lower level. 

That thought calmed him down enough to coax his body back to sleep, and the next time he woke up it wasn’t from aching pain. It was the sound of a door shutting and the clicking of a couple locks.

“Spot?”

Race tilted his head back as far as he could and turned it to follow Spot to the table next to Race.

He sat down and tossed Race and apple. “How’re ya feeling?”

“Better now that you’re here princess.” Race smiled and bit into the apple gratefully.

Spot rolled his eyes and Race pointedly ignored him. “Smartass.”

“Ya love me.”

The words came out heavier than he wanted and Spot looked angrier, fists clenching. They really could have killed him, they both knew that and the reality settled thickly in the air. 

Race cleared his throat. “What happened to em’?”

“Angelo beat it to Queens. I went back for Carver but ‘e was gone. Dunno where but I got guys lookin’,” Spot said tightly.

There was something else in his voice and Race waited it out in silence. 

“They coulda killed ya Race. In a fuckin’ alley under my nose. I almost walked a different way too, mighta’ never seen em’ if I had. You woulda been dead.”

Spot’s eyes looked glazed over and he was gripping the edge of the table hard but Race figured if he let go his hands would be shaking. Once, when one of his younger kids drowned last spring, Race had seen Spot get like this. It was the closest to crying he thought the guy could get.

Pushing himself up, Race swung his legs over the side of the couch and bit back a groan. From the look on Spot’s face he wasn’t hiding anything very well but it didn’t matter. “‘M not dead though, so it really doesn’t matter, eh? No use gettin’ worked up ‘bout somethin’ like that, ‘specially when I’ll be up and good ta go in a few days, huh?”

He nudged Spot’s foot with his own and turned his lips up the slightest bit to try and get rid of the tension. It seemed like it worked a little if Spot nodding meant anything. 

They sat in silence for a little while until Race yawned pretty big and Spot almost had to wrestle him back down.

“Quit whinin’ Manhattan, you’se practically on a vacation.”

“I hear they give ya booze on vacation.”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

 

Race had fallen asleep at some point. Spot and him had talked about nothing in particular for about an hour before Race started dozing off and Spot tossed him a blanket. 

There was a solid weight around his chest and under his head when he woke up though. It was dark and he tensed up off reflex while his eyes adjusted.  An outline of Spot’s arms appeared in the dark and Race realized his was laying on his chest. Spot must’ve laid next to him after he knocked out.

Crutchie would’a told him his face would stick if he kept smiling like that. 

But it didn’t matter because he was already drifting back off and burying his head into the crook of Spot’s arm, and honestly, the pain didn’t feel so bad right then.

**Author's Note:**

> Been writing a lot of sprace again bc I'm bored and a l s o running out of ideas so hmu if you have any :)
> 
> And every time you comment or leave kudos an angel gets its wings, sorry I don't make the rules


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